


Masterpiece

by Dances_In_Ashes



Category: Warehouse 13
Genre: Bondage, F/F, Smut, So much smut, and squirting, basically only smut, cause prompt, ish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-03
Updated: 2016-12-03
Packaged: 2018-09-06 04:07:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8734321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dances_In_Ashes/pseuds/Dances_In_Ashes
Summary: Written for the semi-annual Pornathon, 2013.  Prompt:  Dripping





	

It was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. And I’d like to think I’ve seen a lot, even before becoming a Warehouse agent. The natural beauty of Yellowstone, Niagara Falls, the Grand Canyon. I’ve seen sunsets that were brilliant orange, blushing pink, fiery red; the rays of the setting sun streaking overhead as the comforting blues of night steadily took over. There were nights, deep and dark, that were showered with stars and a swath of Milky Way, those distant celestial bodies twinkling and winking with secret dreams. The Warehouse has given me so many more wonderful things to experience, but none as breath-taking as this.

The infamous and world-renowned inventor and author, H.G. Wells, strung up and given over to passion. Her arms were held high over her head, wrists bound, the rope going over my bedroom door and again below it, to keep her legs spread at shoulder-width. She couldn’t have moved if she’d wanted, and truly, she hadn’t.

Her soft alabaster skin, slick with sweat, glowed in the amber flicker of the candles I’d set up, flushed across her chest and cheeks. Long lines of red criss-cross over the flat curve of a toned stomach where I had drug my nails across perfection, as if attempting to claw my way inside. And a chest, heaving, with breasts that were so easily cupped in the palm of my hand like they were meant to be there; the delicious buds still at attention in remembrance of what my tongue and fingers had drawn from them.

There is an egotistical pride that has swelled inside me, like a bird spreading it’s wings against the world below it, knowing I had a hand in this most wondrous of sights. Quite literally.

And, yet, the best part of this masterpiece…

My eyes rake down Helena’s body, following her slim hips down to the apex of her thighs. The muscles are still jumping under her skin, trembling in the aftermath. There are the beginnings of bruises along their insides, and a little along one hip, the dark blue blossoming under a still-wet lacquer.

That’s what steals my breath, in the end: the sight of her need running along the inside of her legs, a long line of it dribbling to a growing pool on the floor. To say she’s dripping would rather be an understatement. The line runs from her core to the floor, never quite breaking, simply continuing like a waterfall. 

I’ve brought her to the brink of climax three times after a heady amount of foreplay, but still I’ve refused to let her rush across that finish line. And the desperation with which she needs release is now evident in the pleading look she pins me with. 

I take a bracing breath, burning this image into my head, before moving forward to press the length of me against her. Her breath comes out in a hot rush against my collarbones, my lips pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead. 

This is not a game of submission or dominance, of power or weakness. This is about me, Myka Bering, professing my deepest devotion to the woman who’s stolen my heart. I can feel her intake of breath as my fingers slide easily inside of her, because fuck she’s so goddamn wet and open. I thrust in, curling the ends of my fingers on every out-stroke, caressing that sweet spot that has her mewling against the side of my neck.

Using my free hand I reach above us, tugging at a line of rope that unravels the knot around her wrists. She takes no time burying one in my hair as the other grips my shoulder. Her nails dig in, perhaps belated punishment for what I did to her, and presses her face into the hollow between my neck and shoulder. Sometimes I forget how much shorter she is than me -her presence alone makes her seem so much larger than life.

I pull at one of her legs until she complies, lifting it and wrapping it around my waist, her heel digging into my tailbone and crushing me against her pelvis.

I use the position to add extra force behind my thrusts, hips pushing my fingers into her, driving her back against the door again with a loud thud -reflexively, I slip a hand behind her head to keep her skull from making contact.

At this point, it doesn’t take long before she’s panting at my throat, the sounds she makes like ecstasy. My hand is coated with her essence, and it tickles as it runs down my forearm. I purposefully pull back, forcing her blackened eyes to meet mine, before leaning down to capture her lips in a heated, passionate kiss, pouring all my feelings for her into the act, wanting her to take it all and understand.

And it’s the thought of the dripping line I’d created that has me burying three fingers inside of her with growing roughness as my libido charges ahead. It doesn’t go unappreciated, however, because Helena is holding on to me like a life-preserver in the middle of a turbulent ocean. My thumb pad slides purposefully over her clit, and in the next heartbeat she’s screaming my name loud enough that I can guarantee people outside of the bed and breakfast can hear her. There is a wet, obscenely warm gush into my palm that I find surprising -truly, how much more wet could this woman get?- as she crests in her climax and lets it drag her under it’s waves.

I keep us pressed against the door for several long moments while she comes down from her high, my weight pretty much the only thing keeping her upright.

Her breathing is still heavy, and her body trembles against mine, but I tilt her head back with a finger under her chin and when our eyes meet I can’t help but smile. The answering smile is so brilliant, so perfect, and I duck in for a quick peck. “I love you, Helena Wells, with all my heart.”

She chuckles, eyes dancing, and returns the sentiment. But as I pull my fingers from her, I realize she’s made a whole other kind of mess on the floor, a different sort of dripping from my fingertips. I can’t help the laugh that tumbles out, resulting in a questioning look.

“Who would have thought the masterpiece that is H.G. Wells is a squirter?”


End file.
